Severed
by LaughterNeverDies
Summary: A single miscalculation can change everything. The loss of a limb could mean the end of Sherlock's career, but can he accept his disability? When John tries to help him, it's all the detective can do not to push him away...
1. Chapter 1

**Remember...**

It had all been a terrible mistake. One case, one minute slip up. One simple, disastrous consequence.

Sherlock groaned and his eyelids fluttered open as he struggled blearily into cold unwelcome consciousness. The last delicate threads of his dream dissipated into the far corners of his mind, the fine strands glistening with promise as they became engulfed by the all consuming brightness which flooded his vision.

The intrusive glare of the stark hospital lighting stung his eyes and he shut them again, hiding behind the blood red tint of his closed lids with cowardice, watching the curious coloured spots flicker and dance across the endless expanse of crimson. He didn't know at first what had happened, why he was lying in this hospital bed with these itchy sheets and the stale tinge of recirculated air, but slowly the fragments of memory returned to him, piecing themselves together neatly in an intricate and complex puzzle. Even when the jigsaw pieces had slotted confusingly together, the only sharp memory that remained from that night was a name, his name, the only name that had ever mattered. "John" He croaked, his throat raw and dry from disuse.

He opened his eyes fully now, blinking away the murky film of gunk which gummed his eyelashes together. Unexpected sensation was returning to his numbed limbs, his arms began to tingle as he woke, his fingers buzzing with heat. One hand was held in a tight grip by an unknown force, his left side was still numb. One leg regained feeling, the other was still mercilessly asleep. Pins and needles shot through his newly awakened body as he shifted against the pressure restraining his left side. Sherlock wriggled uncomfortably, feeling the pressure being lifted as the weight was removed from his body. He looked down, seeing for the first time the cause of his discomfort.

John Watson was fast asleep against his side, curled against him and snoring lightly, one hand held so tightly onto Sherlock's it was as though John feared he may die should he let go. Sherlock's lips quirked into a smile as his eyes travelled down his doctor's sleeping form, taking in his rumpled clothing, _three days worn, _his hair, _not brushed,_ the bags under his eyes, _not slept properly for a while, _and his adorable little wrinkle he only got when he was really upset or thinking hard about something. Sherlock's smile grew wider as John snuffled a bit and opened his eyes to stare at him. "John" Sherlock murmured, reaching his other hand up to stroke the blonde hair tenderly. John flinched with shock, his eyes widening with surprise.

"Sherlock!" He cried, scrambling up and staring at him with excitement. "You're awake!"

"Excellent deduction John" Sherlock laughed as he was pulled down for an unexpected but welcome embrace.

"I missed you" John said gruffly against the detective's neck, breathing in his scent and the deep delicious baritone of his voice as he replied.

"I missed you too." Sherlock said as they parted and smiled broadly at each other.

John reached out and stroked Sherlock's jaw with his finger tentatively, and Sherlock watched him with interest. The doctor seemed to remember that they were in a hospital bed for a moment, flinching as Sherlock moved one leg to stretch it before shifting the other ever so slightly...

John made the equivalent of a verbal keyboard smash and his hands fluttered around Sherlock with worry "aahshernbrnggh...Sherlock!" he babbled incomprehensively, tugging the detective wandering eyes up to meet his nervously.

"John..." Sherlock mumbled with confusion. "I can't feel my leg... I can't feel my leg John."

John's heart gave a pang of pity and love for the other man as he frowned with concern. "Sherlock, Sherlock look at me, I need you to concentrate on me." John said hurriedly, "Something happened, something bad, but you need to stay calm. The doctor will be here soon, we need to talk about it together." He explained, taking the detective's hand again and caressing it feebly. The doctor could see his partner's eyes widen with fear and begin to flick desperately about the room trying to see past John at his body which the other man had shielded with his own.

"John? What's going on, what happened to me?" he asked worriedly, ducking past the doctor to see his leg.

"Please, please just stay still for a moment" John said, leaning forwards and pressing a gentle kiss to his partner's temple. Sherlock nodded, stiffening and then relaxing into John's embrace.

There was a sharp intrusive knock at the door, and a tall male doctor entered carrying a clipboard and wearing a white coat which directly matched his fine wispy hair. He couldn't have been more stereotypical if he tried. John smiled weakly and remained with his arm around Sherlock's waist. "Ah, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, may I speak with you for a moment?" The other doctor said in an irritatingly calm voice. Sherlock nodded stiffly, his fingers curling protectively around John's waist.

"Mr Holmes, I understand you have had a traumatic time," the man continued. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, trying his best not to deduce anything about him so that he could focus purely on what he was saying.

"And I understand that your wife has just left you for a skiing instructor in France." He blurted without thinking, so much for his previous strategy. The old doctor tried to keep it together, plastering an obviously fake smile on his wrinkled face and looking at Sherlock quizzically.

"Yes, very well observed." He muttered "Mr Watson did say you would do that."

"Doctor" Sherlock cut in irritably.

"Pardon?"

"He is Doctor Watson, not Mister." Sherlock corrected, hearing John sigh from somewhere near his elbow. The old doctor gave another grimace and nodded his apologies.

The man took a seat and looked for some time at the couple wrapped around each other on the small single bed. "Now, what I have to tell you will be very shocking, and I want you to know that whatever emotions you may need to express to get past the initial surprise is perfectly normal and will remain confidential. Some of our patients have some rather extreme reactions and can become very distressed-"

"Just...tell me." Sherlock interrupted. John squeezed his middle comfortingly, his body still angled to prevent the detective from seeing the bottom half of his body.

The old doctor sighed resignedly. "You were hurt in a terrible incident, Mr Holmes." he began. "Dr Watson has informed me that you were chasing a criminal through a building site and the man you were chasing dislodged a section of scaffolding which consequently collapsed as you ran through it. A large section of the concrete structure above you fell down as a result, and I regret to inform you that a large slab of that concrete crushed your leg." The man continued, offering a pitying glance as he referred back to his notes.

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry, I should have been there." John whispered, pressing his forehead to his partner's. "You tripped, I wasn't there to catch you in time and it all came crashing down on top of you. You had concussion; you've been asleep for three days." John said as Sherlock gazed at him with concern and uncertainty.

"My...my leg?" he demanded.

"Sherlock, they couldn't save it, the concrete shattered your bone, there was...there was blood everywhere." His partner said, reaching up to caress his face.

Sherlock stared at him on horror. Then he pushed John away roughly and stared with a blank unreadable expression on his face at his left leg hidden beneath the bed sheet. He was aware of the other doctor and his friend talking to him with worry, but their voices were curiously muffled and seemed very far away. All the detective could do was sit there staring at his limb and remember to breathe. He couldn't recall anything to do with that case, that night. Sherlock reached a hand down and leant forwards to feel the numbness of his flesh and probe it with his fingertips experimentally before John's tanned hand came down on his own and prised it away from his leg. Sherlock looked up at him in a daze. His partner was still speaking, weird jumbled words which failed to reach his ears. Only one word got through, the word he desperately wished didn't apply to him, to his battered body. It was John who spoke to him for a long time, trying to coax an answer out of him.

"Sherlock, oh God, Sherlock love please say something!" John said with distress, holding his hand tightly again. John called him 'love', Sherlock reflected. That was nice.

But there was still that word, that word which was going to change his life, hovering in the air, taunting him with its presence...

_**Amputated. **_

Then the all consuming darkness closed around him, welcoming him into its grim embrace as Sherlock's brain detached itself from reality. The last thing he saw was John staring at him with fear and sickening dread, the love and adoration reflected in his worried eyes. By the time the detective's head hit the pillow he was already unconscious, the word spinning listlessly in the continuous circle of his thoughts.

* * *

><p><strong>I'm really sorry if I offended anyone here. I admit to not knowing the correct procedure following amputation, but I intend to write this to the best of my ability, and if anyone has any corrections or helpful knowledge I'd love to hear it. Thanks for reading. ~K<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Stimulants...**

When Sherlock woke up he knew John was holding his hand again, but there was a lack of pressure against his side which indicated that the doctor was seated next to his bed. He struggled to open his eyes again, but when he did there was no bright hospital lighting searing his eyes. Instead the soft orange haze of sunset filtered through the high window of his private room. '_Mycroft's doing' _his brain supplied darkly.

John lifted his head from his arm where he had been resting his eyes. "Sherlock? How are you feeling?" He asked with concern. The detective lifted his head and gazed at John thoughtfully before looking away mutely to his own lower body.

His left leg was concealed by the sheet. He reached down and tentatively lifted the coarse white fabric to expose the extent of his injury. His pale thigh gleamed white in the dying light, and as his eyes travelled downwards towards the thickly padded gauze binding the joint of his knee. Sherlock felt his breath quicken as he touched the material, a dull throbbing pain pulsated from his amputated leg. It was welcome, it made it real. Sherlock let out an involuntary whine of distress as he felt the stump of the joint where the lower part of his leg had been removed.

The chair beside his bed scraped loudly on the floor as John stood up protectively. He had been sitting quietly as he watched Sherlock explore his new wound, but as soon as the detective gave any sign of anxiety or discomfort he was there for him. The doctor moved towards Sherlock and laid a gentle reassuring hand on his arm. The detective flinched and stared at John like he didn't even recognise him. "Sherlock, I know, I know it's hard but you have to believe me, you're going to get through this, we're going to get through this together." John whispered, stroking a hand over Sherlock's back soothingly. The detective remained transfixed on the stump of his leg, fingering the bandage almost obsessively, tugging at the wrapping concealing his wound like a child petting a small animal.

The detective let out a long shuddering breath and closed his eyes. "John" He rasped, reaching out to his partner "John, I need you" Sherlock pulled the doctor close and wrapped his arms around him, kissing his cheeks and running his fingers through the doctor's hair.

"It's OK, everything's OK Sherlock, I'm here, I'll look after you." John replied awkwardly, rubbing gentle circles on the other man's back and shoulders. Sherlock held onto him for dear life, forcing John to lie down on the bed with him and cuddle against the detective's warm shaking body. "I love you" John told him, letting the detective bury his face in the crook of his neck "I love you Sherlock" He repeated, feeling the other man's pain only too well as he remembered his own injury. "Everything's going to be fine." He reaffirmed as the other man fell into a troubled sleep with his broken body wound around him.

The older doctor found his patient and who he assumed to be his partner asleep together on the bed in the early hours of the morning as he began his shift.

Sherlock wriggled around, trying to get comfortable on the hard mattress with John draped protectively over him like a warm human blanket. He felt the other doctor's eyes on him and he woke up fully. He had been doing a lot of sleeping recently, he reflected, putting it down to the vast quantities of morphine pumping through his system. The other doctor watched in helpless horror as the young dark haired man stretched and moved his left leg a little too far in his forgetfulness. Sherlock screamed suddenly, jerking upwards and throwing himself over his leg in agony as he smacked it hard against the metal confines of the bed. John was shoved roughly aside as the detective crouched defensively over his amputated leg, cradling his thigh and squeezing his eyes shut. The older doctor had rushed forwards and attempted to help but Sherlock was shaking with pain and refused to let anyone near him, even John.

The unbearable jolt of white hot, torturous agony seared up his leg as he tried to roll over, his situation suddenly becoming very clear to him.

Sherlock growled primitively as he nursed his injury, taking quick, sharp breaths through his clenched teeth as a single tear spilled down his cheek. John touched his shoulder cautiously and peered round him to see the bright crimson blood seeping steadily through the countless layers of gauze which were wrapped around his partner's severed joint. The stitches had burst, he diagnosed, and it was evident that his partner was experiencing a great deal of suffering. The old doctor had rushed forwards and was attempting to address the situation but Sherlock was having none of it. A deep, threatening growl emanated from the pit of his stomach and he glared at him, drawing away in fear and uncertainty like an injured animal.

John leaned forwards and pressed a tender, warming kiss to Sherlock's hairline, gently pulling him back so that the other doctor could tend to his partner. Sherlock went stiff in his arms and allowed John to guide him back onto the bed slowly. The old doctor was telling him that he would need to re-dress his leg, but Sherlock didn't look at him. He lifted his head and looked at John lovingly, taking in his wonderfully tousled hair and the familiar wrinkles lining his aging face. God, he loved him so much. Every inch of that man was like a work of art, not what everyone would agree was art, but then, art is what you perceive it to be. He studied John's face intently and tried to disconnect himself from the pain which seared through his body.

His partner shifted uncomfortably and settled Sherlock's head in the crook of his arm, running his fingers through the detective's hair. The older doctor worked quickly, lifting Sherlock's leg and carefully undressing the wound. The detective eyed him warily, biting his lip as the pain intensified when the final layer was removed. The doctor completed the procedure with minimal fuss from the detective, and when he was done, Sherlock let out a long breath and relaxed against John, a small drop of blood welling on his lip where he had bitten hard on the sensitive skin. John stared down at him pityingly, then he raised his head to thank the doctor and give him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Could we have a moment alone please?" John asked hopefully.

The other doctor hesitated before speaking. "I really do need to top up his-" he began, but John cut him off mid sentence.

"_Please_"He said, finding Sherlock's hand and taking it in his own almost unknowingly to signify their bond. The doctor's face softened and he nodded reluctantly.

When the other man was gone, John turned to Sherlock and caressed his sickly pale face. "The morphine's not working is it?"

Slowly the detective shook his head and closed his eyes, the deep seated agony ebbing through his body like a tide of intense heat, boiling his blood and searing his skin.

He let out a soft gasp of release as John smoothed his hair from his sweat moistened brow. Sherlock knew the cocaine would have affected his tolerance for the morphine, but he had no idea as to what extent he would still be crippled by his pain.

He remembered well the final time John had found him administering the drug to his system. It was before they had got together, long before Sherlock realised that he didn't need the stimulant any longer. John was his stimulant now, and his love was enough to chase away the almost insufferable need and replace it with happiness and companionship.

_Sherlock closed his eyes and writhed in pleasure against the sofa as the cocaine sang through his blood. He could feel it, feel it all, every breath tearing through his lungs, every dust particle caressing his skin, every beat of his painfully real heart slowing in his chest, and the suffocating weight of the all too real memories of previous nights spent alone. The continuous ebb and flow from depression to stimulation, the joyous buzz from the high and the crushing reality when he came down, was too much to bear. _

_John knew nothing. _

_Sherlock was careful, he only administered when he was certain his doctor was away, probably shagging one of those ditsy girls he seemed to attract like moths to a flame, or sleeping peacefully in his bed upstairs, while his friend sat alone in their shared living room and pumped the drug into his body mercilessly, aching for that release he knew would take him with just a little more of that white poisonous fluid. _

_He wasn't careful enough though, not this time. _

_Sherlock was getting sloppy in his efforts of evasion. Those constant nights of pleasure undisrupted by any case, letting the drug claim him again and again, pointless, damnable reality persistent and tirelessly invading his mind, begging him to stave away the agonising boredom with the one thing he knew would work, if only for a while where he felt invincible. He always came crashing down again, the black, demonic creature clawing its way back into his mind and making its home there. There was always a way to chase it out, the depression, but he knew soon enough it would slither back the second he set down that cold sterile needle. It was useless, and it was killing him. The real stimulant Sherlock Holmes craved was adventure. _

_John had found his friend when returning home from the supermarket, the fragile plastic slicing into his palms as he struggled with the weight of the shopping. "Sherlock?" He called absently, fiddling with the door knob which was mysteriously shut tightly for once. As far as he knew there was no reason for his friend to shut the door. Sherlock never needed privacy, never asked for anything but silence from John. There was even a memorable time when the detective had strolled out of his bedroom completely naked and smiled pleasantly at John as though there was nothing out of the ordinary, his gloriously exposed body ethereal and pale in the dying light. John had blushed and looked away, but the image remained ingrained onto his retinas for a long time afterward._

_The doctor had pushed open the door and found his only friend draped limp and weak over the sofa, his long limbs splayed out in all directions and his full bowed lips parted in ecstasy. The sickening hypodermic syringe was cradled in one hand where Sherlock had let it fall onto the floor with abandon. The fingers of said hand twitched sporadically as the detective felt the cold draft from the door, and the needle was released, rolling from his palm across the floor and coming to rest at the doctor's feet. John was shaking with rage, he had rushed forwards and taken Sherlock's shoulders, shaking him viciously and shouting at him. He knew the detective wasn't listening, knew he didn't care. He was high as a kite and nothing could bring him down except the very drug which had elevated him. _

_John couldn't bear the thought that he could lose everything so quickly, that the one thing that was important to him was this insufferable man in his arms. For Sherlock to die would mean the end of his world, and the good doctor would rather die with him than face a life without this wonderful man. That was the moment when John knew he was utterly and helplessly in love with Sherlock. _

_That was the first time Sherlock Holmes saw John Watson cry._

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><p><strong>Thanks to irish-hailsy for the prompt about the cocaine. I wish I could tell you what the next chapter is going to be about, but even I don't know. I really should plan these things before I start writing them...~K<strong>_  
><em>


	3. Chapter 3

**Phantom Hope...**

The recuperation stage went by quicker than expected. Sherlock spent a meagre five days in hospital, but John was overjoyed when it was over. Apparently five days without a loaded firearm within easy reach, or instrument to torture mercilessly, was more than a sufficient amount of time for the detective to completely lose all trace of sanity.

The other man would arrive back in the ward after a short break to the loo or from getting some food for himself and Sherlock, to find the detective hanging upside down over the end of his bed, or on one memorable occasion, hoarding his collection of identification tags he had pilfered from the nurses and doctors who had the unfortunate job of coming to check up on him at regular intervals. John would scold him and do his best to return the badges to their rightful owners before Sherlock managed to stab someone with a Swiss army knife he had somehow managed to acquire.

The doctor tried so hard to be mad, but Sherlock would look at him in a confused manner which plainly stated that what else was he expected to do without the necessary distractions his brilliant mind so desperately craved? John would frown and shake his head disapprovingly, and the detective would offer that perfect lop-sided smile he knew his partner loved so, and all was forgiven.

During these instances, the detective seemed to almost forget about his disability. He knew it was there of course, the pain. It was always there, niggling in the back of his mind like a child demanding attention, which he was obligated to provide only in the moments when his body and brain were not otherwise occupied. It was in one of these moments that John Watson found his partner, sitting quietly and thoughtfully in his bed, the debris of his latest escapade cleared and disposed of clinically. Motor oil was clearly a problematic substance to remove from bed linen, John reflected.

The detective did not look up as his friend entered carrying a tray laden with iced pink cakes of every variation. Cakes, or rather, iced pink cakes, were the only food which Sherlock would ingest without complaint. The detective had a very sweet tooth, but apparently the only cakes which were acceptable were those iced with pink sugar. If it wasn't pink, Sherlock wouldn't even look at it. John had literally no idea why. Perhaps the detective nursed some crude child-like notion of comfort and security in that sweet sugary paste, rekindling memories of a simpler time. Either way, Sherlock was eating. He was eating crap, but at least that was something.

The doctor sat down on the end of the bed and offered his partner one of the buns with a smile and a gentle comforting touch of his thigh. It wasn't anything too intimate, but enough to show that he was worried about the other man. The detective didn't move, his eyed fixed on his amputation with a frown creasing his brow. "Sherlock" John said quietly, reaching up a hand to delicately brush a limp curl from the detective's eyes. Sherlock's hair was getting flatter and lank as the days went by. John hadn't really considered how much effort went into the other man's upkeep. Sherlock was usually awake and dressed long before John, and he never got to see his partner in the shower or getting ready in the mornings. It was something he deeply regretted, seeing the detective's beautiful lean body under the spray of the shower, scalding water cascading over his shoulder blades and over his smooth pale chest...

"I can feel it, John" Sherlock whispered at last, his hand hovering over his leg. John moved his own hand from where it had been resting on the detective's inner thigh naturally.

"What, Sherlock? What can you feel?"

"Everything" The other man said, his hand coming to rest at the place where the limb had been severed just below the knee joint. He flinched, but his fingers continued probing downwards, feeling the sheet below where his leg should be resting. There was a distant, dazed look in his eyes, and John couldn't help but notice the wistful way in which the younger man began ghosting the length of his nonexistent left shinbone. "It's there, I can feel it." He murmured, his hands falling through the air and pressing into the bed sheet with a jolt of surprise.

There was nothing John could do to relieve the stress Sherlock was feeling. He spoke to the older doctor later that day, and the man diagnosed it as Phantom Limb, as John had suspected. The next time it happened John simply placed his hand over the detective's and held it tightly to stop the almost obsessive way in which Sherlock would trace the shape of the missing section of his leg repetitively. Sherlock looked up into John's eyes blankly, and once again, the older man was made to feel as though his partner could see right through him. It was as though he didn't even matter.

John leaned forwards and pressed a loving kiss to Sherlock's cheek. The detective leant slightly into the warm touch, but other than that, showed no reaction to the gesture.

"I love you" John said quietly, watching his partner closely. Sherlock continued to let his fingers wander through the empty space beyond his amputation silently. The doctor smiled sadly "don't forget it".

* * *

><p>Sherlock could feel it all, every graze, every bruise, every stubbed toe, sprained ankle, insect bite he had ever received, every irrelevant little itch now culminating in a throbbing, aching pain which ran the length of the lost section of his limb. It was distressing and maddening, his non-existent muscle twitching with spasms of irritation. There was a particularly frustrating itch on his calf, and soon it was all he could focus on, the burning need to relieve this vexation dominating his every thought. He tried desperately to reach out and quell the irritation, but his fingers passed through air, and he was suddenly overcome with an intense indescribable grief at the loss of his appendage. He could feel John watching him with concern, but the detective couldn't bring himself to speak. His emotions were choking him, and he felt lost and very alone, trapped in his mind by the all consuming anger. He doesn't show it, of course he doesn't. Sherlock Holmes never lets anyone know what he is thinking or feeling, that is his one, definitive rule.<p>

Even the love of his life will never know how much his partner is hurting right now, and if Sherlock can help it, it's going to stay that way.

* * *

><p>When Sherlock is given the news that he is allowed to return home later that day, he allows himself a smile and a quick look towards his John, who is sitting some distance away from him looking a bit dejected. That simply will not do, Sherlock thinks to himself, and before the old doctor can hand him the cold aluminium crutches, the tall man is rising unsteadily from his bed and steering his body towards his partner, swaying dangerously and groping for something to regain his balance. They rush to his aid, naturally. The crazy bastard has just tried to hop across the room and throw himself over his lover without even a second thought to his condition. This is going to be tough, John thinks, reaching out and taking hold of Sherlock's arm to stop him falling. This is the man who can't even last three days without putting himself in mortal peril, Sherlock will not sit quietly and allow himself time to recover. He knows that barely half a day will pass before Sherlock is calling up Lestrade and practically begging for a case. Well, not begging, Sherlock never begs. Then again, there was that one memorable time...<p>

The shorter man hooks the detective's arm over his shoulders and guides him to the bed again. Sherlock seems to be suddenly overcome with exhaustion, and he slumps against his partner, his soft curly head resting heavily against the other man's. John staggers under his weight, and the other doctor supports Sherlock's side as they sit on the bed.

"You must understand that you will have to take things slowly, don't over expend yourself when you return home." The old doctor says sternly. Sherlock doesn't reply, simply turning his head away and burying it in John's neck like a shy child hiding from a new acquaintance. John nods in the general direction of the doctor, and he and Sherlock ready themselves to go home to Baker Street.

* * *

><p>They leave the hospital, and Sherlock refuses John's supporting arm as he adjusts his weight in the crutches. Was this how John had felt before they met? Sherlock wonders as he struggles to balance even with the aid of the crutches. He feels very vulnerable and useless as his partner calls a cab to take them home, and he and John sit at opposite ends of the cab, not touching until John has to open the door for Sherlock and help him stand. The detective wants to cry then, at the unfairness of it all, and for his lover, with whom he has saddled the complete and utter dependency his injury entails.<p>

John opens the door and holds it for his partner, who swings himself over the threshold and leans exhaustedly against the wall. Sherlock's right, this isn't fair, but neither is life, and they will have to battle through this if they want to stay together.

The greatest test their relationship will face is yet to come.

* * *

><p><strong>OK, so I lied, I have a sort-of plan. But it's weak and needs work, so stick with me on this one. Updates will be sporadic at best, my apologies. <strong>

**Again, corrections and advice gratefully received (and the odd review wouldn't go amiss), thanks for reading! ~K **


	4. Chapter 4

**Breaking Down Again...**

Sherlock fell painfully against the wall of the shower, his shoulder slamming into the wet tiles as he lost his balance and slipped again. He let out a soft whimper of pain and supported his weight against the side of the bath, his dripping hair falling in his eyes as he struggled to stand.

"Sherlock, you OK?" John called from the hallway in passing as he heard the muffled thumps and bangs from inside the bathroom.

"Fine" Sherlock replied shortly, heaving his weight against the wall and nursing the purple bruise already blossoming over the pale skin of his shoulder.

The detective staggered once and then he was falling again, suspended in the terrifying limbo of uncertainty as his naked body toppled backwards. He closed his eyes for the inevitable pain, grunting as he smacked the corner of the bath on his way down. Sherlock cried out when his skull came into contact with the rim of the tub, and he had only a moment of dazed confusion before his vision clouded and he lost consciousness.

"Sherlock!" John called again, sounding increasingly anxious when his shouting elicited no reply from the detective. "Sherlock I'm coming in!" John called loudly, lining himself up with the locked door. His partner was on the other side of that flimsy panel of wood, he could be hurt, and the doctor was not about to let that go unnoticed no matter how slim the possibility of such an occurrence was. The doctor squared his shoulders and took a few measured steps back from the door as a run up. Sherlock started as John came crashing through the bathroom door with a terrifying battle cry of "Sherlooooooock!" before slamming into the floor along with the door, now detached from its hinges, and sprawling on the tiles in an ungainly manner.

The doctor scrabbled to his feet and stumbled over to the bath where his partner was still slipping in and out of consciousness. "Sherlock love, please wake up, oh God oh God oh God" He murmured, reaching out and brushing the detective's hair back from his forehead. Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and he stared up at his lover.

"John" He said hoarsely. The detective look down at himself, completely naked and exposed, stretched out in the bath with a dull throbbing ache at the back of his head.

"It's OK" John replied, stroking the other man's forehead "you just passed out" he said while Sherlock squirmed uncomfortably. Although his partner's eyes were fixed on his face, the detective couldn't help but feel vulnerable and embarrassed at his present state. There was a blur of movement as he scuttled frantically up the side of the bath like a trapped spider. Sherlock stretched across his partner for the towel which hung on the rack beside the shower, throwing it over himself nervously.

John sighed as Sherlock covered himself and his amputation with the fluffy white fabric. His partner was increasingly insecure of late, shying away from any remotely intimate touch from John or even a reassuring hand on his shoulder. It hadn't been easy.

Months after his injury and John knew Sherlock still couldn't bring himself to look in a full length mirror at his changed body. John would catch the detective off guard, closing his eyes tightly as he passed the mirror standing sentinel and imposing in the corner of their bedroom, or even keeping his vision trained fixedly on the distance as they walked adjacent to a particularly reflective shop window. He couldn't even bear a single glimpse of his body in the glass as his form rippled seamlessly over the warped surface. Even with the new prosthetic, so carefully moulded and fitting comfortably in where the rest of his left leg should be, it was obvious that Sherlock saw a completely different image in that mirror to everyone else.

He could walk now, jump higher, and run faster, everything he craved and more. But there was still that knowledge that it wasn't real, not for him. To Sherlock it was his fatal flaw, just another thing which separated him from _normal _people and their _human_ emotions. John had called him a machine once, during a fight. He had apologised later and they had some pretty spectacular make-up sex, but the initial hurt caused from that word still remained etched into the detective's memory. It was something even he struggled to erase, the face of his lover as he realised what a heartless man Sherlock Holmes really was. This cold, removable appendage only reinforced the idea that Sherlock would never be like everyone else, another brick in the wall he had built between himself and his true feelings.

"Sherlock?" John said gently, touching his partner's shoulder with tentative fingers. The younger man flinched noticeably, John's loving caress like a flame, scorching his flesh.

"I would like to be left alone now, John." He murmured, his voice distant and detached from the reality of the situation.

"I don't think that-"

"_Please._" Sherlock said pointedly, gazing at John in such a pleading manner that the doctor was forced to abandon his instinctual duty and leave his partner alone in the bathroom.

As John closed the door, he felt all strength leave him. He suddenly became exhausted, by life, by Sherlock, by pretending that everything was OK when everything was falling apart, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. He closed his eyes as the despair crashed down on him and he finally gave in to the emotional torment of the past few weeks.

Sherlock raised his head as he heard the quiet repressed sobs through the closed door. He knew what he was doing to John. He knew he was hurting him.

He wished he knew how to stop.

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><p><strong>Sorry this update took so long! Please review if you have the time ~K<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**Healing...**

Sherlock sat alone staring out at the dark unquiet street. His right leg curled beneath him, his left propped at an awkward angle on the armchair. John had moved the chair closer to the window some time ago, when Sherlock was house bound and liked to watch the people below them. Sometimes he made deductions from the way they walked and the things they carried, but they were small and inconsequential. John had missed him then, and he missed him now. He leant against the door frame and watched Sherlock's silver eyes flicking back and forth between the flow of life in the street, and a small fledgling sparrow clutching precariously to the guttering of the house opposite theirs. As the doctor and detective watched, the sparrow released itself from the house and plummeted to the ground, catching a gust of wind at the last moment and sweeping up, carried aloft by the updraft.

John shuffled into the kitchen and put the kettle on, keeping a wary eye on Sherlock's slumped form. These were the dark days. Sherlock didn't speak of them often, and the mention of his depression brought this strange look about his face – a mixture of pain and disappointment- which John hated to see. Sherlock had always been like this, even before the accident. On a case he was always moving, always quick and smart and all around him the air felt electric. Adrenaline, love; whatever it was which drew John in, it kept him by Sherlock's side in the moments in between cases, when the sun disappeared and the shadows descended and darkness crept on stealthy tendrils and made its home in the detective's mind.

John set the mug down beside Sherlock on the table and perched on the arm of his chair.

"I love you," he said pointlessly.

"Yes, I know." John turned his head and surveyed Sherlock's blank expression.

"Tea?"

"Thank you."

John sighed softly to himself. Sherlock didn't utter another word, and John sat there watching as the tea turned cold.

That night in bed, John rolled over and looked at Sherlock huddled on his side of the mattress, the covers pulled up to his chin and the prosthetic propped against the nightstand. He sat up and touched Sherlock's shoulder, but the detective was already asleep, or pretending. John slid back under the duvet and fixed his gaze on the back of Sherlock's head. "I miss you," he said as he closed his eyes.

"I miss you, John." Sherlock rolled over, his eyes slightly red with the effort of withholding stubborn tears. John touched his cheek gently, expecting him to shy away. Sherlock pushed into the touch.

"Will you talk to me?" he asked uncertainly. Sherlock's lips twitched into a smile.

"I'd like to." John inched closer and hesitantly pressed his lips against Sherlock's soft mouth. The detective flinched.

"What is it?" John said, scanning his face for any sign of emotion. Sherlock touched their foreheads.

"I don't know," he murmured.

"Not gone off me have you?" John asked with a chuckle, stroking Sherlock's cheek with his thumb.

"No," Sherlock replied earnestly. "I think...I'm scared."

"Scared?"

"It's a strange kind of fear. It eats away at you, like an ache. Inside." John listened. "I always liked it when you touched me. No one else could make me feel... this." Sherlock fidgeted uncomfortably and John moved his hand to stroke the back of his neck.

"And now you don't like it?"

"I do, but I think...it's irrational. I think you don't want me like this anymore." Sherlock sighed. "Not irrational, perfectly sensible, loss of attraction...it happens."

John blinked at him, unable to place the emotions warring inside him. Instead, John gathered Sherlock to him and held him tightly in his arms.

"Call yourself a genius," he muttered quietly, "bloody idiot if you ask me."

Sherlock pulled away momentarily and looked at John. John ignored his questioning glance and proceeded to kiss him breathless.

"Physical attraction is important." Sherlock managed between John's feverish kisses. "In a relationship..." John grunted something and moved to sucking a mark on Sherlock's pale skin. "I thought that maybe you weren't -" Sherlock tried, while John climbed on top of him. "That you didn't -"

"Pillock," John breathed, crushing their mouths together. "You thought I wasn't attracted to you?" Sherlock stared at him helplessly and John sat back on his heels and looked at him. "Sherlock Holmes, listen to me."

"I rather doubt I have any choice in that Doctor Watson, as you are currently sitting on my legs." John shushed him and Sherlock grinned.

"You are the most brilliant, insane, gorgeous man I have ever known. When we first met I knew that you would always be the one, and you still are. Minus a few parts." Sherlock glanced at the prosthetic warily. "Look at me," John commanded, tilting Sherlock's head towards him with his hand. "I love you. I always will. No matter what." Sherlock swallowed, taking John's hand in his own. "I said we were going to get through this together, and I meant it." Sherlock began to smile, and John leaned in and kissed him sweetly. "Now take those pants off," John whispered in Sherlock's ear. Sherlock grinned.

Later that night, Sherlock lay awake, John's sleeping form stretched out beside him, and smiled. It was a new sensation, to know that there would always be someone there beside him. John wriggled in his sleep, and Sherlock put an arm around him and pulled his smaller body against his side. He no longer felt the pain from his leg, and in truth he had begun to think that for the first time everything might be alright. The battle was far from over, but a war is better fought with a soldier at your side. John murmured something in his sleep, and the detective held him tighter, like an anchor against the tide, a safe harbour in a storm he could not weather.

Sherlock turned his head and looked out of the window into the night, and at last he saw the stars.

_The End_

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><p><strong>AN: It's finally finished, so a big thank you to anyone who read it, or has waited for this, and I'm sorry it took so long. You probably gave up on this story a long time ago, but I really appreciate every one of you for taking the time to read this. x**


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